John's phone announces itself before his first pint even arrives, but he doesn't check it for a few minutes. It's too fast, and he's scared that it means Sherlock doesn't want to see him again.
Self-disgust tears his stomach lining apart mercilessly, but he knows that mercy is not something he deserves from it. Maybe alcohol wasn't the smartest plan he could have come up with after what he just did completely sober, but when the pint arrives he downs it in three swallows anyway.
What he just did is so completely out of character for him that he can still see it replaying, projected onto the screen of his closed eyelids. Sherlock backing up against the wall, trying to push him away, actual fear in his grey eyes.
He thinks he might vomit. Had he really been so consumed by his own desire and clever plans that he misinterpreted Sherlock's emotions? He'd effectively forced himself on the detective. And then after…
After you've taken control of my body and my schedule now you want to take my "heart" as well?
He thought he was being so nice, trying to coax the detective into eating and sleeping and being nicer to witnesses. Thought he was helping. He'd told himself that Sherlock would be grateful in the end, that he was improving his life, looking after him. It hadn't even occurred to him that he was, technically, trying to change his flatmate, and that said flatmate might not want to be changed, and were the situations reversed, yes, he would be rather angry.
With his second pint in his hands, John finally delves into his pocket and checks his phone.
Please come back. SH
John jumps off his chair and runs back to Baker Street as fast as he can.
Sherlock is sitting in the dark on the settee, staring into space blankly. John can see the ruins where tears have trekked down his cheeks and feels even more wrecked than before. I did this to him.
"Sherlock," he says gently from the doorway, turning on the lights. "I am so sorry."
The consulting detective's eyes are the only thing that moves, flicking up to John's face. He tries a tentative step forwards, and still Sherlock doesn't respond. The only other time he's seen his friend this exposed, this broken, was in Dartmoor after the detective had just had his first encounter with Project H.O.U.N.D.
"I didn't realise I was upsetting you so much," he tries to continue. "I wasn't… I don't want to change you, Sherlock, and I'm sorry I was trying, even if I didn't mean to."
The silence sits in the space between them like a bad scone in an empty stomach. John sits down in his armchair, facing the detective, trying not to say anything else, to let him collect his own thoughts.
"You were right, John," Sherlock voices finally, his voice clear but dull, without feeling. He eventually moves, shifting on the settee and placing his fingers in front of his lips. "I did… I do."
John isn't quite sure what he's referring to, but he keeps quiet, not wanting to push his friend. Sherlock drags in a deep, shaky breath and looks up at him again. "When I found this flat I could afford it by myself. What I said to Mike, I wasn't serious. I didn't mean it as a challenge. I've lived alone since the moment I could plausibly and legally move away from Mycroft and I never wanted it any other way. I've always been independent, and my living habits weren't exactly conducive to a healthy cohabitation environment. But then you walked into the lab and I…"
Sherlock rubs his chin hard with the knuckles of his thumbs, struggling internally to compose his thoughts the right way. Then he looks up at John again, his eyes deadly serious. "I wanted you, John." He tries to smile, but it shakes. "I saw you and I knew I could have you, that you'd care about me and run around with me and not judge me the way other people did. I'd never wanted that before, but you were right there and suddenly I wanted it. So I went along with it, pretended I needed someone to split the rent with, pretended that was my plan all along."
The consulting detective sighs heavily. "You're the only person who's ever cared about me for me, not because I'm family or because I got rid of their abusive husband or solve their cases. It's… intoxicating. I didn't know it would feel this nice. John, you can't… I don't want you to leave. I don't like that you try to force me to eat and sleep and all that stuff, but I like that you do it because you care about me. I'd rather have you and grumble about the ways you try to make me into a better person than not have you at all."
John waits until he's sure Sherlock is finished, then nods slowly. "Thank you, Sherlock," he says gently. "I didn't know how much I was hurting you, but now that I do, I promise you I'll try to stop, okay? I'm not going anywhere, not if you don't want me to, because I really don't want to."
Sherlock smiles weakly. "There's… I… the other thing you said," he says awkwardly, and John's stomach plummets.
"That won't happen again. I'm not sure how it happened the first time but I swear it won't happen again." Sherlock shakes his head, his curls swinging behind. "I'm really sorry. I can't believe I did that. Either time."
"I wanted you to, the first time. You were right." Sherlock drops his hands and seems to retreat further into himself. "I knew what you were doing, and why you were doing it. I've never done anything like that before, but I knew you wanted it and I wanted to know what it would feel like. There's no-one I trust to do anything like that except you, John." The consulting detective runs a contemplative finger over the swell of his own cupid's-bow lips. "I told you to stop because it… it scared me." He averts his eyes, embarrassed at admitting this weakness. "I did like it, though, John, it was just too much. It made me want more and I could feel that I was losing control, and I'm never out of control, so I panicked. And then the second time I just wasn't ready to control it, and my brain shut down again. Those kinds of feelings, they're not something I'm used to, and I don't know how to deal with them."
John's not sure how he should feel about this. So he was right about Sherlock wanting it, wanting him. But the last thing he wants is to force one more thing on his best friend that will fester inside him waiting for another explosion.
I can't let you steal my heart.
"Sherlock," he says suddenly. "You know stealing someone's heart is just a figurative thing, right?" The detective gives him a scathing, really, John, look and for a moment it's the old Sherlock and John chuckles. "No, I wasn't thinking that you thought I actually wanted to cut you open and take it out. I mean, if you don't want to give it to me, I'm not going to force you. I won't take it against your will. I want you to love me, Sherlock, but only if you want to."
Sherlock sighs and shakes his head. "I don't really understand what that entails, John," he admits, looking mortified. "I think I'd like to. But I don't know quite what you mean me to do."
John stands up and tentatively moves over to his flatmate, who looks up at him for a moment, then sighs and shifts over so he can sit beside him. He doesn't make any further movements, so after another pause Sherlock huffs out a breath and leans down to rest his head on John's shoulder. A pale, long-fingered hand snakes its way to clutch at his sleeve. He fights the urge to hold and squeeze and own, and instead places his own hand over the detective's shoulder. "This is how, Sherlock," he says softly. "This is enough."
They sit there for long minutes, listening to the ebb and flow of the clock and the hum of traffic and life outside. Then Sherlock sits up, keeping John's arm around himself. "John," he says, as though he's not sure quite how to approach whatever it is he wants to say. John isn't used to Sherlock being shy, and he can't help wondering if it's his fault, and what he'll have to do to get the old pushy Sherlock back. "If you want to try… kissing me again, I think it'll be okay."
He reaches up his free hand and runs a thumb along the sharp ridge of the detective's cheekbones, his heart thumping uncomfortably. This is okay. I can do this, he's letting me. He bites his lip, looking at the pliant, nervous gleam in his friend's eyes. I want more than that. More than him letting me. I want him to want me. "We don't have to, Sherlock."
"I want you to." The taller man doesn't hesitate this time. "I'm ready now, I'm expecting it. I trust you."
John searches his face for hesitation, and finds plenty. "If you want me to stop, just say and I will, okay?" Sherlock's only response is to close his eyes expectantly. John is jarringly reminded of his first girlfriend in high-school, expecting him to know what to do, how to proceed. Putting everything in his hands. He'd been clueless then, too.
Sherlock's eyelids flutter, and before he can open his eyes and protest that John is taking too long, the doctor leans forward and as gently as he can, touches their lips together. Sherlock breathes in slowly against him, his fingers tightening on the sleeve of John's jacket. John tries to draw back but the detective follows him, pushing forwards to keep the contact between them.
John's very aware of how easily the situation can slip out of control. He's wanted and imagined this for so long and it's never been like this, with the detective so vulnerable. He has to keep a very tight hold on his self-control to avoid doing what every nerve in his body is screaming at him to do, pushing his flatmate back against the couch and taking him before he can protest. The knowledge that Sherlock is keeping a similar lid on his primal urges is somewhat hard to stomach.
He gently shifts his lips against the detective's, opening them slightly and breathing gently into his mouth. He remembers he must taste like beer, but he can feel Sherlock's free hand clenching and unclenching against his leg and the other man's breathing accelerates slightly. He wonders if his entire judgment of the experience is going to be based on Sherlock's minute shifts in body-language. He closes his mouth again, catching Sherlock's lower lip between his own and clamping down on it gently.
The detective lets out a low noise and surges forwards slightly, his hand rising to the back of John's head. John hesitates, wondering if this loss of control is going to spook Sherlock into stopping, but after a moment he slowly carries on, taking his lip right into his mouth and sucking on it gently. Sherlock keens quietly, so John touches the tip of his tongue to it.
Sherlock pulls back, and John very quickly lets go of him and shifts backwards on the settee to give him a bit of space. Too far. No tongue.
The detective is breathing heavily, staring at him, eyes wide. "John," he says, and his voice has impossibly dropped at least an octave. "That… I…"
John nods. "Too much. I'm sorry."
"Just…" He takes a breath and lets it out slowly, trying to get his heart rate under control. "It was nice. I want it. Give me a moment."
"Have you considered that this losing control is kind of the point?" John ventures finally. "Doing it slowly like this, always in control, it's hard for both of us because that's not the way it's meant to be."
Sherlock looks at him. "Yes. I know." He smiles weakly. "I… I just don't like not being in control. That's part of the reason I never wanted to try it before. I thought maybe I should gather data on it because it's the motivation for so many crimes, but it's not a stable source of data. And I didn't trust anyone else enough to try and lose control with them. I knew what you were doing, with all the making tea and the compliments, and I thought I should try – I found the notion… appealing. I'd expected to react when you kissed me, but it was too strong and my brain shut down and shut you out. But I want to try."
Touched speechless, John takes Sherlock's head in his hands and holds it to his chest. "I love you, Sherlock. So much."
The consulting detective wriggles his way out of John's grip and for a moment he thinks he's done something grievously wrong and the other man's about to run away and bang his door shut. Then Sherlock's lips are on him, hard and moving, and there's tongue and hands and John wants so badly if he just dared to open his eyes he wouldn't be able to see straight, but he doesn't dare to do anything except kiss back. He leaves control of the situation in Sherlock's hands, holding himself back, because he knows that at any second it might all be snatched away from him.
"John," Sherlock growls between kisses, "I've never actually… wanted… anyone before." He pulls back, suddenly hesitant; John opens his eyes again to see the detective biting his lip. "I want it all with you, John," he admits almost reverently. "I want everything. John, you… you take my breath away."
John tries not to laugh. He really does. But Sherlock's statement irrevocably brings to mind the theme song from Top Gun, and it's so unlike Sherlock that he supresses a who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes? After a moment of internal struggle, the corners of his mouth turn down trying to fight the grin, and after that external sign, he's lost.
It's lucky Sherlock's trying not to laugh too. When John loses it, Sherlock starts to chuckle as well, ducking his head embarrassedly. "All right," he admits through his giggles. "I'm sorry. That was… too prosaic."
"It just wasn't you," John agrees, propping himself up against the back of the sofa and trying to rein in his laughter. "Just… just be yourself, Sherlock, or this won't work."
Naturally, the impromptu giggle-fit all but erases the tension that had been building up, and John reaches for Sherlock without even thinking about his awkwardness and the intense need to stay in control; he takes Sherlock's angular face in his hands and kisses it, because he wants to, and because Sherlock is letting him, Sherlock wants him to. The kiss is unhurried, gently parting his flatmate's lips and exploring his mouth with his tongue, holding Sherlock to him securely but not too tight that he can't get away. In response, the detective clutches at both of his arms and tries to pull him in closer until John is drowning gently in so much Sherlock, and it starts to feel more like usual, more like he'd imagined.
After a minute or so, Sherlock starts to take control, pushing John backwards slightly. Grinning into the kiss, John pulls away from Sherlock's lips to kiss and suck a line down his neck. The detective groans, startlingly loud in the empty room. John breaks away to listen to the noise in wonderment: he made Sherlock do that.
Sherlock presses his tongue into the pulse-point under John's ear. It's warm and wet and twisting, and John's brain is suddenly right back there. He gasps and threads a hand into Sherlock's curls, not pushing or moving, just there, and when Sherlock licks his earlobe into that unbelievable mouth he can't stop the detective's name escaping his lips. He feels Sherlock smirking against his neck and his heartbeat accelerates until it's one steady hum and each individual beat is indiscernible, blending into a song of Sherlock's name.
Then the consulting detective stands up suddenly, breaking all contact except gently brushing his fingers against John's palm. With a smirk, he drops that point of contact too and strides away.
John stares after him, mouth open. What was that? Is Sherlock leaving? Did he go too far somehow? He finds his gaze slipping inexorably down the detective's back and to his rear, swaying slightly with the movement of his walk, the fabric of his impeccable black trousers clinging affectionately to the flesh.
Sherlock stops in the doorway to his bedroom and turns back to the doctor. He's still smirking.
"Are you coming, John?"